Veiled Revenge (24 page)

Kepelov bent over the table and examined both sides of the cloth closely under his glass, as Marie and Lacey and Vic watched. After the first pass he pulled an ultraviolet forensic flashlight from his jacket pocket and asked Vic to turn off the lights. He repeated his examination with the black light, turning the fabric in every direction to inspect every thread. Finally Kepelov straightened up.

“Someone is having their little joke with us,” he said. “Nothing here. No pellet, no needle, no poison, no nothing. Wait, I see a slight tear, couple of pulled threads, maybe recent, so perhaps something was hooked there. Gone now, whatever it was. The shawl is safe to handle. This is good, but now we know nothing.”

“Where would the rip be if it were folded, the way it was when Leonardo grabbed it and danced with it?” Lacey asked. Marie took it and folded it the way she was wearing it that night.

“Right there,” Kepelov said, pointing to the tiny flaw in the fabric where it would have rubbed Leonardo’s neck.

“Then it’s possible that something in the shawl scratched him,” Lacey said. “Just the way he said it did.”

“But why all this?” Vic said. “Why steal it and then return it to Lacey? Kepelov, any theories?” The Russian shook his head. “Lacey. You have any clue, darling?”

Lacey spread the shawl out on the table again and leaned down to stare at it. “Could you all give me a moment alone with the shawl? Don’t go far away, just a little space, please.”

Marie put her hands up like a referee. “If Lacey thinks there is some message for her to read, let us give her some
space
. Back off, boys.”

“There. The boss has spoken,” Kepelov said with a wink. “Take all the moments you want, Smithsonian.”

Vic kissed her forehead. “Take your time. Call when you need us. Do do that voodoo that you do so well.” She stared at it. “Darlin’, is it hypnotizing you?”

“I’m still thinking,” Lacey said. “Go away. Please.”

“You think. I need more coffee.” Kepelov looked around the conference room.

“Through there. We can put on a fresh pot.” Vic motioned to the kitchen, reluctant to stray too far from Lacey’s side. “Make it two.”

“Make it three.” Lacey touched the shawl with her fingertips. It was mysterious. A little intimidating.

“Four’s a party,” Marie said.

Gregor returned presently with a tray and a glass pot of fresh coffee, sugar, creamer, and nondairy sweetener. He refilled all their cups at a credenza well away from the shawl. “She is still communing with the shawl, our genius with the EFP?”

“When was the last time someone added to the embroidery, Gregor?” Everyone stared at Lacey. “I’m talking about the pictures, not the flowers and so on. I mean the illustrated history of the Kepelovs.”

Gregor scratched his bald head. “I could ask Olga. Though she has never sewn a stitch herself, she might know. Perhaps my mother, adding a symbol for each child born. You will find our initials, somewhere, if you hunt for them. In Cyrillic, of course.”

“What’s tickling your brain, Lacey?” Marie asked.

“This.” She pointed to a small group of threads, part of what looked like an unfinished drawing of—something. It was hard for Lacey to say of what. “This gold thread looks recent. It’s brighter and shinier. And this red thread over here. Other colors too. All these bits are brighter, newer-looking, maybe even some kind of polyester. They have that look of polyester thread. Not the old silk thread used almost everywhere else in this thing. But these bits don’t make a picture, not to me. Does this mean anything to you, Gregor?”

Lacey pointed and Kepelov followed her finger. “Nothing to me. Perhaps someone started a little picture, didn’t finish it.”

“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Vic offered.

“This shawl doesn’t have mistakes, honey,” Lacey said. “It’s a family artifact. Every stitch means something. Right, Gregor? And there’s only so much room left. You wouldn’t start a new story and then stop. You’d have it all worked out, every stitch, probably on pattern paper, before you put needle and thread to the shawl. And the more I look at it, I can tell that even the more primitive stitches, from long ago, from the women in the family whose fingers
weren’t
kissed by angels—they all have meaning. They all tell a story, even if we don’t know all the connections. But these—” She pointed out more disconnected stitch lines of newer-looking thread, in several more places. “What if—” She didn’t finish the thought.

“What?” Kepelov said.

“Don’t stop her,” Marie cautioned the others. “She’s listening to the shawl.”

Lacey took one corner of the shawl and folded it. “Could the lines of new thread match up somehow?”

Marie and Vic were watching quietly, but Kepelov jumped to his feet. “Smithsonian, this is good! Good stuff. You think there is a new meaning in the new lines?”

Lacey shrugged. She took the opposite corner of the garment and pulled it in, made another experimental fold. “Not yet.”

“You think there’s some weird message in it?” Vic asked.

“A cryptogram in cloth.” Kepelov clapped his hands together.

“We just don’t know what the message is,” Lacey said.

Not yet
, she thought.
But any message someone can write—or stitch—someone else can learn to read
.

Chapter 28

Puzzles.

Lacey didn’t know what made her think of those old-fashioned paper finger puzzles children played with, but it was an image that wouldn’t let go of her.
Fold it this way, open it that way, and inside . . .
She folded the shawl looking for a way to connect the disconnected lines of new stitches.
What are those things called?

“I never was any good at puzzles,” she said, baffled.

“Not true, Smithsonian,” Kepelov said. “You are doing good.”

“Darling, you may have exhausted the possibilities of the shawl,” Vic said.

“Do not interrupt our Smithsonian,” Kepelov scolded. “Something is telling her to look again, look a different way. ExtraFashionary Perception.”

“Do you see what she’s talking about?” Vic asked him.

“No, but I do not have the EFP,” the ex-KGB spy said.

“Please stop with the EFP nonsense,” Lacey said.

“That means quiet,” Marie said.

“Marie, do you know how to fold one of those children’s finger puzzles? The ones that open and close when you put them on your fingertips, like this? They have colors and numbers, and then you open up little squares, like so?” Lacey made the motions with her fingers, as best she remembered them. The men stared, obviously not understanding a word she was saying.

Marie’s eyes lit up. “I believe I do, cher. And here’s something you’ll like. Do you know what that little paper puzzle is called?”

“No. I was never any good at that paper-folding stuff. I never made one, but I remember seeing them. How do you fold one, and how does it work?”

“It’s called a
fortune-teller,”
the fortune-teller said
.
Lacey’s mouth fell open. “Some folks back home in New Orleans, they call it a
cootie catcher
, but we called it a fortune-teller. It’s a children’s game. I bet they have them in Russia too. Sort of an origami thing, but they’re easy to make. Is that what you meant, cher?”

“Yes! An origami fortune-teller! Can you show me how to fold one? Vic, can we use some paper, please?”

Vic pulled some letter-sized sheets from the copier. Marie took one, deftly folded it into a square, and cut off the excess with Vic’s scissors. She folded and creased the square again and again until it opened up into a palm-sized object, rather like a little four-cornered crown, which she slipped over her two thumbs and fingertips.

“Like this. See? You either color these little squares or draw symbols on them, like, say, crystal balls and tarot cards or eyes of Horus, or whatever you like, and you write numbers or letters on the other squares.”

“Show us, please.” Kepelov crowded in to see.

Marie gave him the puzzle, which he turned over and over. “When you open the inside triangles, you have little fortune-telling sayings written on them. Like
yes
,
no
,
maybe
,
the future looks bright
,
the future is cloudy
. Or
You will meet a beautiful stranger
, or
You have a secret admirer
,
You will be rich and famous
,
You will marry a handsome fool
. Silly things, just for fun. The other child chooses a symbol and a number, which you unfold to find their fortune. And you charge them a nickel.” She laughed. “Not real fortunes, you know, just pretend fortunes.” She handed it to Lacey.

“Thank you, Marie. Shall we try it with the shawl?”

Marie nodded. Vic took the paper puzzle from Kepelov. “Lacey, I haven’t got a clue in the world how this works.”

“I know this looks crazy, but it’s my last idea. Then I’ll stop and you can try something else. Ready, Marie? Show me where to make the folds.”

“Ready, cher.” Marie stood on one side of the table and Lacey on the other, hovering over the magnificent garment.

Lacey carefully refolded the shawl, with Marie directing. First the corners, in and out and over and under, the way Marie had just done with the sheet of paper. The shawl wasn’t as stiff as the paper, so it wouldn’t stand up, but it was nearly square, so Lacey was able to re-create roughly the same set of squares and triangles as in Marie’s folded paper fortune-teller.

There were a couple dozen of the broken, abstract-looking stitch lines of bright gold and red thread. With the shawl spread out flat, they formed no discernible pattern and were barely noticeable. But with the shawl folded, they joined together to reveal—shapes?

Pictures, or diagrams
?

Lacey grabbed the magnifying glass and leaned in close. It took her a moment to put the lines together. Both men crowded in, fascinated.

“It can’t be that.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Not that.”

“Can’t be what?” Vic was at Lacey’s side, his hand on her shoulder.

“Talk, Smithsonian,” Kepelov said, staring at the shawl.

Lacey barely whispered. “The riverboat.” She didn’t look up.

Marie touched her fingers to the edge of the fabric and closed her eyes. “New Orleans. Yes.” She started to sway, as if she were about to faint.

Kepelov helped Marie into a chair. “Just breathe, my darling. What is going on?” Marie was glassy-eyed, but awake. He held her hand and crouched down next to her. Lacey and Vic went to her other side.

“Marie, are you all right?” Lacey hovered over her.

“She is seeing something, somewhere else,” Kepelov said. “Don’t be afraid, Marie. I am here with you.” He held her close, but spoke to Lacey. “You saw something in the shawl, Smithsonian. Tell me.” His blue-eyed stare seemed to pierce her.

“New Orleans,” Lacey repeated. “Marie is right. But I’m not sure what it has to do with anything. How could it?”

“You’re the only one who can be sure, sweetheart,” Vic said. “Show us.”

“Whoever stitched this is no expert with a needle and thread. So you have to use a little imagination.” She handed him the magnifying glass and pointed to the way the stitching joined together at the puzzle folds. “This seems to be a riverboat. See it? See the paddles? And the water? Blue thread for water, see the waves? And there’s a stick figure falling from the boat into the water. It’s a little abstract. Like that universal symbol for women on ladies’ room doors.”

“Okay, wait, I see the riverboat,” Vic said. “And the figure. Weird.”

Lacey traced the thread to the next picture, across another fold. “But here’s another boat, next to the stick figure in the water. Might be pulling her aboard? Another touch of blue for water. And that bit of red thread might mean blood, indicating the figure was injured.” She felt shaken and faced Vic. “You don’t think she’s alive, do you?”

“Lacey. If you’re talking about Natalija Krumina, she’s dead,” Vic said. “We saw her go under the water. In the Mississippi. She never came up again.”

“Natalija Krumina, that crazy woman?” Kepelov said. “She died in the water. A just end for her.”

“But what if? Natalija tried to kill me. And remember, she used poison to kill my friend Magda, but Natalija didn’t just use poison. She also used a gun and a knife.” Lacey rubbed her eyes and blinked. “Now, there’s more tiny needle-and-thread work over here.” She stooped over the shawl again. “Maybe I’m crazy, but does this look like a death’s head and five strokes? As if someone’s counting by fives: four vertical strokes and one stroke diagonally across. Wait, plus one more line, to make six.”

Vic studied the shawl intently. “I’ll be darned.”

“There were five of us in New Orleans,” Kepelov said.

“There are six lines, if you count Marie,” Lacey said. “You gave Marie the shawl and someone used the shawl to kill.” She exhaled. “Natalija.”

“Hunting the lost Romanov diamonds,” Kepelov said. “What a chase that was! Are you saying that Natalija is alive? She cannot be. Not after what happened.”

“Kepelov—you and Nigel and Stella,” Vic said, counting on his fingers. “Lacey and me. Five.”

“The sixth line is for me.” Marie suddenly returned to the here and now. She was back from wherever she’d gone in her mind. She staggered to her feet, with Kepelov’s help. She leaned over the shawl, placing her fingers on it. “I got news for y’all. The one you been suffering so much remorse over, Lacey, cher, and you too, Vic. You didn’t kill her. She has a terrible thirst for revenge.”

“How do you know that?” Vic asked.

“It’s what I do, cher, I know things, I just don’t know
how
,” Marie said with a sad chuckle. She grabbed hold of Kepelov’s hand. “Only the thing is, this time, I didn’t faint. It all washed over me and through me and I remember it all and I didn’t faint.”

“Natalija Krumina is alive?” Gregor thumped his chest. His face was contorted in something between bafflement and rage.

“Or someone wants us to think so.” Lacey and Vic locked glances. Attempts had been made on four of them. “Leonardo was a mistake. Natalija never knew Leonardo.”

Marie nodded to Kepelov. “Go ahead, take a peek at the shawl, Gregor. I’m fine.”

“But, Marie, my love, you had a vision, and you did not faint,” he said. “This is wonderful. Momentous.”

“I’m powerful dizzy, I have a headache! Could someone be a dear and fetch me some aspirin?” Lacey dug a bottle of Advil out of her tote bag. “I’m just so pleased with myself for not fainting,” Marie added. “I will have to humble myself and thank Olga for helping me with her breathing exercises.”

“She will be most happy to claim all credit for it.” Gregor reached for the magnifying glass and Vic handed it over. “So only when the shawl is folded this way, your pictures appear?”

“As far as I can tell,” Lacey said. “No other way seemed to work.”

He was silent for a few moments, breathing heavily. “My God, I see it now.”

“I’m getting a camera,” Vic announced. “We need to document this.”

“Sean Victor, dear, would you be sure to note the date and time?” Lacey asked sweetly. “And just caption the pics, ‘Lacey was right.’ It’s for the bronze historical marker I want to put right
here
.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “Smart-ass.”

Kepelov was grinning. “I am proud of you, Lacey Smithsonian. Of your gift.”

“But I’m still confused,” Lacey said. “How could Natalija put something in the shawl?”

“The woman who fell into the water. She wants revenge, she wants blood,” Marie said. “Returning the shawl, I think, was to send you a message, Lacey, to see if you could decipher it, and see how clever she is. So you’d feel her power. That’s what she wants now, power and revenge.”

Vic returned with a big Nikon DSLR camera and a tripod and set it up. “If what you’re saying is true, Marie, then Natalija is here in town. Or someone wants us to think she is. As far as I know, her body was never found, but other people probably know that too. If we go with Lacey’s theory that the poison was inserted somehow into the shawl, how did Natalija find out about it and get to it? Any of us who were there in New Orleans would know Natalija on sight, but nobody has seen her.”

Lacey felt the blood drain from her face. “Yes, I might have. The waitress who admired the shawl at the party. Tilda was on her nametag. She said her grandmother had a Russian shawl. Dirty blond hair, and a prominent nose.”

“Oh, yes. That plain little thing?” Marie remembered. “I told her to be careful, but she handled the shawl anyway.”

“Her voice,” Lacey said. “It had a lyrical quality about it. It was so at odds with her appearance.”

“Let me think—she touched it while she talked to me.”

“But you didn’t feel anything psychic from her?” Kepelov asked.

“Sugar, I was concentrating so hard on the bachelorettes, I just thought she seemed respectful. I was concerned for the shawl.”

“That was her chance to slip a needle into the shawl,” Vic said, thinking out loud. “Lacey has been saying that Leonardo’s murder was just a crime of opportunity. And a mistake, if Marie was her real target.”

“She had to assume Marie would be the only one to wear the shawl, and she hoped—” Lacey began.

Marie took Kepelov’s hand. “That’s why I couldn’t see her intent. I can’t read my own fortune. I’m blind in that direction. Natalija Krumina hoped to kill me.”

“And to make me suffer,” Kepelov said. “To take you from me. She must have followed us.”

“But Tilda didn’t look anything like Natalija,” Lacey protested.

“Blond wig,” Kepelov said. “Simple.”

“And the distinctive nose?”

“False. Easy enough to do theatrical effects. Art of disguise is practically first thing you learn in spy school. They give you fun part of curriculum first. People say disguise doesn’t work? Ha. Works all the time. Nobody sees it working.”

“If phony noses are part of the first lesson, where does mixing poison come in?”

“That we save for more advanced classes.”

“The waitress we saw had a scar down the side of her face.” Lacey drew an invisible line on her cheek with her index finger. “It looked real, not like makeup.”

“If she survived hitting those riverboat paddles,” Vic put in, “she has real scars. The rest could be spycraft.”

Spycraft! Brooke would just love to be a fly on the wall here
, Lacey thought. “You’re saying Natalija was trained as a spy? You knew her best, Kepelov. And you were involved with her once, romantically.”

“No romance. Only sex. Nothing more.” Kepelov sat on the end of the table and gazed at his family treasure. He pointed out his initials in Cyrillic, stitched in the shawl, and smiled sadly. “As for being professionally trained? I don’t know. Maybe a little. She wanted me to think so. Natalija is such a bad girl. That part I liked. Mix of Latvian and Russian, been around the world, speaks many languages, smart, fearless, no scruples. Maybe she looked valuable to Russian government. Or somebody’s government.” Kepelov rubbed his shiny head. “But if Natalija is a spy, she is spy like that Anna Chapman, famous so-called Russian Mata Hari. Party girl, nightclubbing, sleeping around, posing, looking mysterious for the camera, no real spying. Chapman was in it for glory and money. To go to America, get on Russian television, to get rich and famous. Reminds me of Natalija. What you call a gold digger. And all this complicated stitching and folding, stealing and returning? All to send a crazy message? Amateur showoff wannabe spy stuff. Amateurs always doing things the hard way. Showing off how professional they are.”